


no signal

by bravest



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: American Sign Language, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an old drabble I wrote from a bit ago but never posted here, in which Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench get cellphones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no signal

The first time Numbers is handed a cellphone he scowls down at it. It’s clunky and feels cheap, and when he glances at Wrench’s it looks tiny in his hand. They are told they’re for emergencies, and communicating to Wrench directly through text if they need to.

There’s something about them Numbers doesn’t like. Maybe it’s how tied down it makes him feel to know they’ll be reachable at all times, that this is a way to keep tabs on them. He doesn’t  _want_  them to be able to reach him whenever and wherever, on their own terms. He has half a mind to throw the thing into the trash.

He flips it open, looking up at Wrench when he feels a tap on his elbow. 

« Let’s test them », he signs, and Numbers sighs, because fine, yeah, it’s not like he has a choice. Even if he dumped it somewhere they’d give him another.

Numbers presses buttons until he pulls up the contacts. There’s only the headquarters’ number there, and right below it,  _Mr. Wrench_. He selects it, feels the large presence of Wrench peeking over his shoulder. For a second he’s blocking out the light and making a shadow over the phone, but then he shifts and it’s gone.

One of the first few times they’d worked together, Wrench had been standing behind him and his shadow has stretched past Numbers, his head blocking out the sun, and Numbers had signed « you’re making shade » at him to be a dick. Wrench hadn’t reacted, except to look up at the sun, squinting his eyes. He’d shrugged and then signed « I’m not moving. » They’d squabbled but in the end neither of them had moved; they were stubborn then as they are today. Now, years later, Numbers feels weird if there isn’t this presence nearby, at least in the corner of his eyes, at his back or walking ahead of him, next to him in the car or in their bed. Funny how that had turned out.

The keys of the phone are too small and Numbers takes forever to type out the words  _dinner tonight,_ taking even longer to figure out where the interrogation mark is. By the time he’s finished he’s hitting the send button with an angry press of his thumb. What’s the point of these things if it takes you an hour to type anything up?

The phone beeps from Wrench’s hand, and there’s a second of happiness lighting up his face, like he’s thinking about how amazing technology is, even though cell phones have been around for years, large and clunky and carried in little brief cases and not all that handy at all.

Wrench types faster, and soon enough Numbers’ phone beeps with the same sound.

 _I can make that pizza again. With the tomatoes and feta_.

Numbers’ eyebrows shoot up.

_The one you burnt?_

He watches Wrench read the text and then look up at him with a scowl, huffing harshly through the nose.

 _You were supposed to keep an eye on it!_  
  
 _I know, I know. Pizza sounds good to me.  
  
_ Numbers hits send, then keeps typing while Wrench waits for him to be done.  
  
 _Typing on these is shit._

Wrench huffs through his nose and shakes his head, smiling down at his phone as he types even faster than before. He’s getting used to it, the asshole. His hands are twice Numbers’ size, how can he even hit all the right keys? 

 _You’re just horrible at it._  
  
Numbers want to snap back at him, but instinctively he goes back to signing at Wrench.

« You’ve got more practice » _,_  he signs.

It’s odd, communicating in writing. It’s the same thing, rationally, but at the same time it isn’t at all. It’s like seeing someone talk who’s voice is familiar to you, as familiar as your own, but with a different voice coming out of their mouth. They express themselves differently when they sign at each other, they have their own little quirks and that’s gone when Numbers has to read what Wrench is telling him through a screen. He likes watching his hands speak to him, and he likes letting his own go through the motions without having to think.

« If you want to get better at it, you should keep practicing. » Wrench points at the phone.

« I like signing better _._ »His hands are jerky when he signs the words, meant to be a little annoyed. Wrench isn’t angry, through. He just blinks and gives him a long look, his hands still. Numbers watches, but Wrench doesn’t sign anything, instead he nods, just slightly, once. Numbers looks away from his face, clearing his throat a little too loudly. Sometimes in the heat of things he forgets how much he loves him, and then it comes back to him all at once and he has to gruffly stomp away, like he’s doing now.

A hand catches him at the elbow, nudges him so he turns around.

Wrench puts two finger to his chin and Numbers knows what’s coming before he’s done signing the word.

« Cute. »

« Stop », Numbers signs back immediately, and Wrench smiles down at him and raises his eyebrows, shrugging. It’s his  _I didn’t do anything_  face, and he hits Numbers in the shoulder with his own as he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks past him, leaving Numbers to watch him walk away. If there’s a bit of spring to his step Numbers pretends he doesn’t notice it, and if he’s thinking about how else he can use his hands to communicate how he feels to Wrench later, no one has to know.  
  
No sir.


End file.
